Angie was sitting up in bed, frowning at her in a bleary-eyed, confused way. “Lauren?”
Embarrassment rooted her to the spot. Her cheeks burned. “I—uh—I’m sorry. I knocked. I thought—”
Angie gave her a tired smile. Her eyes were swollen and rimmed in red, as if she’d been crying. Tiny pink lines crisscrossed the upper ridge of her cheeks. Her long dark hair was a mess. All in all, she didn’t look good. “It’s fine, kiddo.”
“I should leave.”
“No!” Then, more softly: “I’d like it if you stayed.” She lifted her chin to indicate the foot of the huge four-poster bed. “Sit.”
“I’m all wet.”
Angie shrugged. “Wet dries.”
Lauren looked down at her bare feet. The skin was almost scarlet colored; the blue veins seemed pronounced. She climbed up onto the bed, stretched her legs out, and leaned against the footboard.
Angie tossed her a huge chenille pillow, then tucked an unbelievably soft blanket around her feet. “Tell me about last night.”
The question released something in Lauren. For the first time all day her chest didn’t ache. She wanted to launch into every romantic detail but something stopped her. It was the sadness in Angie’s eyes. “You’ve been crying,” Lauren said matter-of-factly.
“I’m old. This is how I look in the morning.”
“First of all, it’s ten-thirty. Practically afternoon. Secondly, I know about crying in your sleep.”
Angie dropped her head back against the headboard and stared up at the white tongue-in-groove planked ceiling. It was a while before she spoke. “Sometimes I have bad days. Not often, but … you know … sometimes.” She sighed again, then looked at Lauren. “Sometimes your life just doesn’t turn out the way you dreamed it would. You’re too young to know about that. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“You think I’m too young to understand disappointment?”
Angie looked at her for a long, quiet moment, then said, “No. I don’t. But some things aren’t helped by talking. So tell me about the dance. I’ve been dying for details.”
Lauren wished she knew Angie better. If she did, she’d know whether to drop the subject or keep it up. What mattered was saying the right thing to this sad, wonderful woman.
“Please,” Angie said.
“The dance was perfect,” Lauren finally said. “Everyone said I looked great.”
“You did,” Angie said, smiling now. It was the real thing, too, not that fake I’m-okay smile of before.
It made Lauren feel good, as if she’d given Angie something. “The decorations were cool, too. The theme was Winter Wonderland, and there was fake snow everywhere and mirrors that looked like frozen ponds. Oh, and Brad Gaggiany brought this fifth of rum. It was gone in, like, a minute.”
Angie frowned. “Oh, good.”
Lauren wished she hadn’t revealed that. She’d gotten wrapped up in the pseudo-girlfriend moment. She’d forgotten she was speaking to an adult. Truthfully, she didn’t have enough experience with it. She never talked to her mom about school events. “I hardly drank at all,” she lied quickly.
“I’m glad to hear that. Drinking can make a girl do things she shouldn’t.”
Lauren heard the gentleness of Angie’s advice. She couldn’t help thinking about her own mother and how she would have launched right now into her own regrets, chief among them being motherhood.
“And guess what?” Lauren couldn’t wait for Angie to guess. She said, “I was homecoming queen.”
Angie smiled and clapped her hands. “That is so cool. Start talking, missy. I want to know everything.”
For the next hour, they talked about the dance. By eleven-thirty, when it was time to go to the restaurant, Angie was laughing again.
TWELVE
The phones had been ringing off the hook all day. It was the third Sunday in October, and in the tiny West End Gazette, a full-page ad had run on the front page of the so-called entertainment section.
Rediscover Romance @ DeSaria’s.
The ad had detailed the changes—date night, wine night, happy hour—and included a number of coupons. Fifty percent off a bottle of wine. Free dessert with purchase of an entrée. A two-for-one lunch special, Monday through Thursday.
People who had forgotten all about DeSaria’s were reminded of times gone by, of nights when they’d gone with their parents to the tiny trattoria on Driftwood Way. Most of them, it seemed, picked up the phone to make a reservation. For the first time in as many years as anyone at DeSaria’s could remember, they were booked solid. The coat donation box was full almost to overflowing. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to take this opportunity to help their neighbors.